


The Scrabble world champion

by deltaSpositive



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-04
Updated: 2015-08-08
Packaged: 2018-04-12 22:43:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,534
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4497537
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deltaSpositive/pseuds/deltaSpositive
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mycroft was the Scrabble world champion. Greg was a police officer in France. The two then met.</p><p>(06/08/2015 GMT+8 23:10 : I added a large part into chapter 2, so if you read it before this time you might want to take a look at it again.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I know nothing about French, so please don't blame me and blame google translate instead if you know French and find the French incomprehensible.

“And this year’s winner of the National Scrabble Championship is Mycroft Holmes!”

 

Mycroft Holmes didn’t smile or wave at the audience. He gazed coldly into the cheering crowd. He had just won by a staggering 312 points, and had completely and thoroughly humiliated the five-time champion, who now looked like he was going to commit suicide any moment. So ordinary, he thought. He had hoped he could find some challenge in this seemingly brilliant man, but in the end he was just another of those ordinary people. It was disappointing.

 

He wondered if he could ever meet one person who could challenge him. 

 

Without saying anything to the audience, he picked up his umbrella and left.

 

***

 

Mycroft Holmes stared intently at the Official French Scrabble Dictionary for a few seconds, closed his eyes, and then delved into his Library. He was on his flight to France to compete in the Championnats du Monde de Scrabble Francophone, the last stop of his Scrabble world tour. He could speak fluently in French, but he still had 40000 French words to memorize before the start of the competition three weeks later. That meant he had to memorize 2000 words a day. It’s not really a big deal for Mycroft Holmes.

 

"Who is going to be my biggest competitor?" He addressed his PA sitting next to him without opening his eyes.

 

"I knew you are going to ask that," Anthea smiled. Their patnership had been so long that she could now almost read his mind.

 

"Here. Gregory Lestrade," She said as she handed over a brown file, "He is very good-looking. Might suit your taste."

 

Mycroft glared at her, "I thought men are not your division."

 

"Shut up and read," as she shoved the file into his hands.

 

***

 

Two weeks quickly went by, and Mycroft entered the finals with ease. As predicted, he will be facing off Gregory Lestrade, a French police officer whose British mother gave him an English name at birth. Standing in front of the door to the competition room, Mycroft paused slightly, took a deep breath, and pushed the door open. The room was small and brightly-illuminated. A white table, with a scrabble board placed neatly on the surface, stood in the middle of the room. Two grey chairs were placed on the opposite sides of the table, empty. For a moment, Mycroft thought he had entered the wrong room. There were a few men standing at the corner of the room, staring at him, but there were no signs of a competitor. His PA told him, however, that all was set and the competition was ready to start. Just when he was turning to leave, one of the unassuming men at the corner stepped up and smiled at Mycroft.

 

Mycroft looked at him and involuntarily blushed slightly. In front of him was one absolutely charming silver fox. He had the classic good looks of a British gentleman, with mischievous brown eyes staring into his own. He was wearing a plain white shirt and a black suit, his torso protruding slightly at the middle which only made him look even more adorable. Adorable, Mycroft mentally chastised himself. When had he started to use such sentimental vocabulary to describe a man?

 

A boyish grin spread on his slightly tanned face as he shook Mycroft’s hands, and Mycroft found himself blushing harder. He recalled the word “dishy”, one that he hadn’t used since his teenage years, and he found no better word in the English language to describe the man in front of him. His cerebellum was stuck, refusing to cooperate, and it was thanks to his conditioned reflexes that he managed to lift his arm to shake.

 

The man didn’t seem to notice his gapping mouth and transfixed stare. Perhaps he had seen such reaction from both sexes too many times that he had become comfortable with it.

 

“It is my honour to finally meet you, Monsieur Holmes,” the man said in his deep and slightly gruff (sexy) voice.

 

“I… I…” Mycroft stammered. Luckily Anthea wasn’t here. Or else he could never hear the end of this again. He wondered if the newspaper headline tomorrow would be ‘Mycroft Holmes lost in words’. “Ah, I was just about to say the same to you, Monsieur Lestrade. I didn’t know you speak English.”

 

“I spent nine years of my childhood in Britain. It is my mother tongue,” the man said, “Do you speak French? I know some Scrabble players who know French words but are not francophone.”

 

“Malheureusement, je ne suis pas l'un d'eux,” Mycroft pointed his umbrella towards the table. “Pouvons-nous commencer?”

 

Although Scrabble is a word game, to Mycroft it was simply a game of chess in which the player calculated each and every possibility. It was just a mathematical model, but a very complicated one. When he looked at the board, his mind would immediately begin to do all sorts of analysis, like a super computer with thousands of CPU doing dozens of tasks at once. He would sometimes retrieve results from the Scrabble section in his Library and input them into the thousands of equations running through his head. Then after a few seconds, during which millions of codes were carried out, the vast number of results would be compared and catalogued, leading to a final result like how the hundreds of branches of a tree would finally converge at the stem. He was simply unbeatable.

 

Although Lestrade’s first appearance left him an unforgettable impression in his mind, throughout the first half of the game, it seemed he was also just an ordinary human being who happened to be just slightly smarter than the rest of the kind. The grey-haired man would, contrary to his casual and relaxed demeanour when they met, sit on the edge of his chair and bend over his rack like a hawk, his countenance contracted in concentration. His moves were very good, but still it was nothing compared to Mycroft’s mastery of the game. By the end of the tenth move, Mycroft was already leading by 98 points.

 

Mycroft lifted an eyebrow when Lestrade looked up at him with his baleful brown eyes, as if he was mocking him and saying, “Sorry, mate. I am smarter than you.”

 

“You’re good, aren’t you,” he said and grinned, showing his perfect white teeth.

 

“I thought you knew that,” Mycroft said. A ghost of a smile showed on his lips in victory.

 

“I haven’t shown my hand yet,” he said, still grinning.

 

“Show me, then. Impress me,”

 

It was as though the words were a spell, and then the game was on. Suddenly Lestrade became more aggressive, and it became a war between the two greatest nations. Words quickly filled up the board, and impressive moves were laid down one after one. Mycroft was unable to widen the gap between their scores, but Lestrade was unable to close it as well. It was a fierce battle, and the two men used all their wits to try to outsmart the other.

 

The final word came down to Lestrade. The gap between them was now 105 points, and Mycroft was pretty sure he would win. But then, to his horror, he watched as Lestrade laid down the letters one by one to reveal his ultimate weapon. His face grew dark, but when he looked at Lestrade, he didn’t look smug. He was just smiling a bit, and when he finished his word, he stood up and held out his hand.

 

“Triple score makes it 54, and with the seven letter bonus, it would be 104. Congratulations, Mr. Holmes,” He said, still smiling slightly and holding out his hand, "You won."

 

Still slightly light-headed from the dazzling final move, Mycroft rose slowly and held his hand. So brilliant, yet also gentlemanly. “I am truly honoured to meet you, Mr. Lestrade. That was the most brilliant match I’ve ever had," he paused, whole-heartedly sincere. "It was only by luck that I won, and I wish to offer you my greatest respect,” he finished, looking into the brown eyes firmly.

 

“Hats off to you too, Mr. Holmes,” he said. Then there was a moment of silence as the two men just stared at each other. Mycroft suddenly became aware of the slightly sweaty and rough calloused palm in his hands, but he found himself unable to tear away the warm and wonderful presence of the man.

 

It was Lestrade who finally broke the awkward silence. “Um...I must go now, my wife’s waiting. I really hope to see you next year, Mr Holmes. I really do." He gave Mycroft one more longing glance before he left.

 

Mycroft stood there like a statue. He didn’t feel victorious. He didn’t feel happy. He just stared blankly at the closed door where Gregory Lestrade had left.

 

Gregory Lestrade was not an ordinary man.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't think the French police has positions like "DI" and "PC", but I am lazy, so yeah.
> 
> I also didn't bother to translate the dialogues to French. So when you think it should be said in French, just use your imagination. :)

The Old Town district of Menton, located along the Côte d'Azur, was a medieval town facing the Mediterranean Sea at the south of France. The warmth of the south and the mesmerizing deep blue ocean attracted thousands of tourists each year to this quaint little town, all wanting to indulge in the soothing sea breeze while lying on the carpet of smooth white sand along the Coast of Blue. Colourful buildings painted in all sorts of summer colours – pink, yellow, orange – stood on the smooth hills along the shore, their medieval architecture an arcane treasure to those who revel in discovering the culture of the old-times. In the middle of the small pack of orange-roofed structures was a church, its tower standing out amongst the crowd and glamourous in the brilliant golden sunshine.

 

Detective Inspector Lestrade walked briskly along the wooden planks of the boardwalk, his long coat fluttering behind him in the gentle sea breeze. He was grinning – he usually didn’t grin at crime scenes – as he overlooked the glittering blue sea and listened to the sound of waves gently washing up the shore. This was the luckiest day of his life, and it all began with a phone call from the local force saying there was a dead body found in Menton. He secretly wished all the murderers in France would move here.

 

“Bonjour, sergent Sebastien,” the DI greeted happily as he arrived at the crime scene.

 

“Nice place, don’t you think?” The lean, sly-looking man swept his arms across the beach where the poor woman was found, lying bloodlessly several meters away from the wave front.

 

“Yeah, I really like this place.” he replied, jogging down the steps to the beach. “Alright, what have we got?”

 

The case was fairly simple, and it took them no more than two hours to apprehend the murderer who was the woman’s husband. The DI was ducking under the tape, leaving the crime scene, when he felt a pat on his shoulder.

 

“Hey, sir. Sergeant Sebastien asked if you would want to have a drink with the lot,” a young PC asked Lestrade, who was turning around.

 

“Nah, tell him I would come along next time,” Lestrade said, and he was about to leave when the PC lightly grabbed his arm.

“Look,” he said, slightly embarrassed, and the DI lifted an eyebrow quizzically, “I just want to say, you are really great, sir. I learnt a lot from you.”

 

Somewhat taken aback by the unexpected flattery, Lestrade spoke awkwardly, “Um… Thanks, I guess. It’s nothing, actually. Just years of practice and you will get here too.” He smiled pleasantly at the PC.

 

“No, I really mean it sir. The way you connect the dots so quickly, it’s just, amazing,” the PC said, his cheeks now burning hotly, “And I heard you are really good at Scrabble too.”

 

Considering that he came second place in the national Scrabble competition, ‘really good’ was actually an understatement. But Lestrade nonetheless already felt light-headed upon hearing the heartfelt adulation from his PC. He was struggling with a decent response when a voice from inside the building where the murderer had hidden in called the PC’s name. The PC quickly left and Lestrade was left alone, standing at the edge of the crime scene.

 

He never really thought he was a brilliant man. Throughout his childhood in Weston-Super-Mare, he had been a mischievous little boy who pickpocketed people whenever he was low on cash. He did not have good grades, and truancy was his favourite pastime. Just before he turned 10, his mum sent him back to Paris to live with his father, who was a policeman on the local force. It was then that he started to get back on track, and entered the Police nationale as a PC in homicide division.

 

He joined homicide division because he found challenges in his work, solving little puzzles for a living. During his time as a detective inspector, he was introduced to Scrabble, and since then reading the Official French Scrabble Dictionary and playing the game became his favourite and only hobby. He knew he was good at it, but he considered his success at the game a mere result of devotion and perseverance. Just like how he got his current position as the DI.

 

He walked down to the boardwalk and sat on a wooden bench, looking at the beautiful sea view in the glory of sunset. The beach was quite deserted: it was reopened after the police had cleared up the mess, but people didn’t want to swim just after a dead body had been retrieved. He watched as two braver young men played in the water, enjoying the last of daylight.

 

“Bonjour, Monsieur Lestrade,” said a voice behind him. The French was impeccable, but it carried a bit of British accent. Lestrade thought he had heard the voice somewhere before, but he wasn’t sure. He turned around, and saw a man standing behind him in an immaculate three-piece suit.

 

Exactly one year ago, the man in the same three-piece suit beat him in the best game of Scrabble he has ever had. He could never forget that night: he remembered how this man, incredibly posh and polished, had come in through that door with confidence. He remembered how he had temporarily gawked at him like an idiot and stammered. He remembered how he had laid down spectacular moves one by one without hesitation, his eyes twinkling with ultimate intelligence. He remembered how, even with his greatest effort, he had lost to the man by 1 point. He remembered the awkward moment of silence between they bid goodbye.

 

The memories, which had seemed so far away, rushed back to him at once as he faced the man. The man hasn’t changed: His suit still as immaculate as ever, his hair still the same shade of auburn, his eyes still the daring glare showing complete dominance.

 

“You didn’t come, detective inspector,” Mycroft Holmes said. He was leaning on his black umbrella, one hand supporting his weight, the other carrying two cups of tea.

 

“Homicide,” Greg said, gesticulating to the beach. He shuffled over a bit. “Please sit, Mr. Holmes. And don’t call me detective inspector, it’s too formal.”

 

Mycroft, as if considering his offer, stared at him for a second before moving over and sitting down next to Greg.

 

“You do realize you are contradicting yourself, do you?” Mycroft said while setting down his umbrella on the bench and holding one cup of tea to Greg.

 

“You do realize there’s no need for an umbrella in such beautiful weather, do you?” Greg replied mockingly and sipped the tea.

 

For a while, the two just sat and drank the tea, enjoying the view in front of them.

 

"What is the case?" Mycroft asked.

 

"Why are you interested? Homocides usually aren't appealing to people."

 

"You tell me, Gregory." Mycroft's lips twisted into a small smile.

 

"Because you love maggots? Unhealthy obsession Mycroft," Greg lowered his voice and pretended to be chastising him.

 

"I have many unhealthy obsessions, Gregory," Mycroft eyed him as he replied.

 

"Naughty boy, Myc," Greg scolded. Mycroft involuntarily giggled. He seldom giggled, being a man who put logic above all things, and he thought he was acting like a inane idiot. But he couldn't help himself with the man beside him. Technically, they had know each other for a year now, but this was only the second time they met, and already Mycroft was laughing with him. He felt happy and relaxed in the presence of the man, and he was quite certain the man next to him felt the same too. Moreover he was calling him 'Myc', but for once, Mycroft actually felt fine with the abbreviation.

 

"A woman was found lying on the beach this morning. The local police couldn't find anything useful, so they called us in. Turns out it was just another wife-cheated-and-then-killed-by-angry-husband case." Greg said after Mycroft had stopped giggling.

 

"And you managed to close the case within two hours by looking through orders from nearby bars to see which  one has the same beer as the one found next to the victim and would fit as an order of two. Then you traced the credit card number to the angry husband and found the murder weapon in his hotel room," Mycroft said.

 

"How did you know all that?" Greg stared with his mouth slightly ajar in surprise.

 

"Simple deduction, detective inspector," Mycroft teased, "Not difficult at all."

 

"Show me, then. Impress me," Greg said.

 

Mycroft noticed those were the exact words he used a year ago. He quirked his lips at Greg to let him know that he knew the reference.

 

"Since police are out of their depths, it is reasonable to assume there are no witnesses. No one would move a body to a beach for no reason, so she was killed here. It is a public and crowded place, so the murder occurs very late at night, or you could say very early in the morning. So why were she and her husband walking along the beach at that time? Possibly a late night walk after a drink. It is further corroborated by the fact that the wife was found cheating, and since she won't suddenly tell her husband about that and the husband had'nt known about it until then - or else he would have killed earlier - it is reasonable to say she blurted it out while she was drunk. So there had to be a bottle of beer. A smart man like you, you would use the bottle of beer as a link, so you traced its origin. Since there is no witness or anyone who remembered seeing the woman, you had to find the murderer by means of credit card payment," Mycroft said, "Easy."

 

"You certainly are a very smart one, Mycroft," Greg said.

 

"And you figured it out yourself too, didn't you, Gregory," Mycroft said, watching the handsome man's face with admiration and adoration.

 

Greg sensed he was being looked at, so he turned his head and looked at the man in front of him: A man so smart, so funny. Slightly awkward in his speech and actions, yes, but that only added points to his cuteness. And he's also the Scrabble word champion too. This was the man who had beaten him, and yet he was now also looking at him.

 

The two watched each other in silence, seeking solace in each other's company. Neither of them, however, moved. They knew perfectly well where the line stood.

 

"So," Greg finally broke the silence, "I guess your visit here today isn't just about showing off your amazing ability?"

 

“Why did you quit playing Scrabble, Gregory?” Mycroft asked, his tone returning to the tone of coolness.

 

Greg didn’t answer him. “How did the match go today, Mycroft?”

 

“I won by 332 points,” Mycroft said like he was saying ‘I ate breakfast this morning’.

 

“Wow,” Greg said. “I guess I should be flattered.”

 

Mycroft looked at him. Greg looked back, but was unable to see what he was thinking beneath his inscrutable façade. “You are an extraordinary man, Gregory.”

 

Having heard a similar phrase the second time today, Greg was less abashed this time. “Says the man who won every Scrabble and every chess game he has played.” Greg had read into Mycroft’s biography the day after the match, and he had pretty much memorized anything he could find about the man.

 

“I am clever, I know that. For what I know, I could be the smartest man in England,” Mycroft paused, taking another sip, “But you are different.”

 

“Different how?” Greg queried.

 

Instead of giving a straight answer, Mycroft recited his biography, “Truancy in childhood, had pickpocketing habits. Yet in just one year after you came to Paris, you had managed to transform from a bad boy to a top student in your school. Four years after you have joined the police, you reached the position you have today. You started playing Scrabble at 30, but have already become one of the top Scrabble players at 34. Do you not realize how different you are?” His tone was still calm and controlled, but Mycroft felt a bubbling sensation in his stomach.

 

“Perseverance and devotion, I always tell myself. That’s how I do all these things.”

 

“Nonsense. You are a natural, Gregory. You don’t become the man you are today with just perseverance,” Mycroft said. The sun was going down, and darkness began to creep onto them.

 

“The man who is already 45 and has stuck in his position for more than 20 years. I don’t see anything remarkable in this man.” Greg said, a little bit heated.

 

“You are just not ambitious, Gregory. You like solving crimes, so you remain in this position willingly,” Mycroft said.

 

Greg sat up straight. “Mycroft, I know you are very smart. But don’t you think you understand me better than I do,” he said, raising his voice.

 

“Don’t be stubborn,” Mycroft snapped, also straightening himself. The cup of tea has long gone cold, and chill wind swept across the two of them. It was as though the air around them suddenly cooled by 10 degress as all the warmth from the previous conversation drained from Greg's stare.

 

“If your visit today is to tell me I am stubborn, then you have made your point. I am leaving,” Greg could barely contain his anger, and now his only way to avoid shouting, which was something he rarely did, was to leave the scene quickly. It didn't make sense though: Mycroft was just telling him he was great, and he had no reason to be angry. Nonetheless, he rose to his feet and picked up his cup. He stood there for a while, allowing Mycroft a chance to decide if he was going to apologize or yell at him.

 

Mycroft’s response, however, was not something he expected. He simply said, “If you wish.”

 

Greg felt betrayed. He didn’t know why, as Mycroft had simply acquiesced to his own demand, but he felt betrayed. He turned and walked a few steps, before he suddenly stopped and said without looking back, “You know, Mycroft, I really meant it when I said ‘I really hope to see you’ after our match. Now, I don’t know.” The man regained his pace and quickly disappeared into the darkness.

 

Mycroft stood alone on the boardwalk. He had looked foward to today, hoping to play a match with the extraordinary man he had met a year ago. But the man didn't show, so he had come here instead. Everything was fine in the beginning, and he felt the odd sort of attraction rekindle in his heart when they met. He was sure Greg felt the same too. But what went wrong? Why did everything go wrong when he started to persuade the man to go back at the game?

 

Something must have happened to Greg during the past year. And it was sure to be something big.

 

Mycroft wondered if he made a huge mistake of letting Greg go.


	3. Chapter 3

Greg was furious.

 

After he left, he stomped all his way to the local pub, barely noticing anything around him. People were laughing and chattering, but it only annoyed him more.

 

How dare Mycroft Holmes suggest he knew Greg better than he knew himself! That pompous, self-centered bastard who thought being the world champion meant he understood everything!

 

Greg didn't need people to tell him he was smart and special. He wasn't. He was just a hardworking guy who happened to have a knack for puzzle games. He was a poor sod whose career has been in stalemate for more then twenty years, sitting in his cheap office chair every day doing all the stupid paperwork. He was getting old, and although he didn't mind the grey hair, it was a reminder that time has gone by, that after living half his life, he has still achieved nothing. Yes he was married and had a beautiful wife, but now even this single achievement was about to be taken away as his marriage life tumbled down like an avalanche. His wife was cheating, which he discovered thanks to his deduction skills, and to make it all worse, his wife was blaming the failure of their marriage on him! When he was the one who has been working hard and earning money and never cheated!

 

He accidentally kicked the lamp post but found himself relishing the pain. So he kicked it repeatedly until he could no longer bear the pain. It felt good.

 

He made a narrow escape as he noticed just in time that the whole police force was drinking and cheering in the pub he was about to enter. The happiness made him feel sick. Instead he went to another smaller pub and sat at the corner alone, drinking bottles and bottles of beer.

 

The pub was quiet. It was full of people, but most of them were couples who came here to enjoy the beautiful weather. There were two men sitting at the bar, not a couple, but definitely flirting. Specially designed romantic candles were placed on every table, flickering, giving out a sweet, soothing aroma that permeated the pub. Greg took a deep breath. It wasn't much, but the aroma did calm him down a bit. 

 

Drinking alone felt great. He suddenly found himself quite happy, drinking into oblivion, forgetting all the sad things. He stood, pushing the chairs and tables out of the way and smashing one of the bottles accidentally, and took another swig of beer. Ignoring the looks from other customers, he said loudly to himself while swaying dangerously, "Thank you for leaving me alone, Mycroft. I really, really enjoyed this." He walked haphazardly across to the counter, slapped down some cash, and left the pub, giggling inanely to himself.

 

Suddenly he dropped to the ground.

 

When he woke up in his hotel room next morning, he felt like his head was about to explode. He rubbed his thumbs violently against his temple, trying to tame the burning headache, but it was in vain. He flopped back on his pillow with a loud thump, trying to alleviate the pain, when he suddenly felt the urge to regurgitate the acid in his stomach. He dashed to the bathroom and vomited. 

 

After clearing up his stomach and taking a long shower, he slumped on one of the armchairs in the room. The headache was slightly better now, but he still felt sore and tired. And depressed.

 

He had only flashes of memories of what happened aftee he went into the pub. Broken glasses, overturned tables, crazy giggles. He couldn't remember how he got here. But that's not a concern.

 

He sat quietly in his hotel room.

 

For how long he had remained in this position, he didn't know. He only knew light was shining brightly into the room when there was a knock at the door.

 

Who could that be?

 

Suddenly Greg had an ominous feeling that it would be Mycroft, coming to yell at him. Although he didn't know why he thought Mycroft would yell at him. He paused for a moment, wondering if he should just pretend he was not here and leave whatever possibility outside his room, when a voice from outside asked timidly, "Detective Inspector Lestrade?"

 

Definitely not Holmes. Greg felt slightly relieved. But who was he? He had definitely heard the voice before. Greg racked his brains as he got up and answered the door.

 

 ***

 

"So," Greg sipped his cup of earl grey tea and looked up, "Where are the others?"

 

Greg and the PC from yesterday were sitting at a small outdoor cafe, enjoying the beautiful weather in the sea side town of Mellon. The beach, full of people and decorated by a myraid of umbrellas, was just across the shabby gravel road in front of the cafe. Greg has put on his sunglasses; not that the sunlight was particularly eye-blinding, but Greg heard he looked dashing in those. Collins, the young PC, was still wearing his uniform as he had not prepared for an overnight stay. The pair attracted quite a lot of attraction from the female beach-goers.

 

"They left this morning. I told them I would just stay here to enjoy the view," Collins said as he checked their reflections on the glass wall of the cafe. He had no idea whether the amount of attraction was because of his uniform or the man sitting across him.

 

"I really appreciate that, Collins, but next time you don't need to lie for me. I don't mind being joked at," Greg said, feeling warmth in his heart for the fact that someone still cared about him. He smiled at him, letting him know his gratitude.

 

"It was nice though, staying here. At least now I know how to use my uniform better," Collins beamed at one of the young girls who had just waved at him. Greg laughed.

 

A comfortable silence settled between them as they ate their food leisurely. The food was great, and combined with the nice weather and great view, everything seemed just fine. Greg decided he would take his wife here for a short holiday, hopefully mending their broken marriage.

 

 "So," Collins said, his eyes studying the chrysanthemum in the flower pot on the wooden fence next to them as the waiter collected their plates of oyster shells, "Do you want to tell me what's going on yesterday?"

 

Greg considered. "Just a fight with someone I knew. Nothing serious," he said gruffly.

 

"He must have upset you a lot," Collins said compassionately, looking into the wistful brown eyes.

 

"Upset? No, I was just angry," Greg plucked a leaf from the chrysanthemum, "He said something, and I just lost it."

 

"Oh," Collins said. What was it that could hurt the DI so badly? Must be pretty vile. "You know, some people are just so mean. They enjoy hurting others. My personal experience tells me the best way to deal with them is to ignore them. Once they find out their mean words aren't working you up, they will just give up."

 

"Yeah, you're right. I should just..." Greg broke off suddenly. He seemed to have come across something very important. What was it? He tried to think what had just caused him to suddenly stop. It was something in Collins' words. Something about...

 

Oh.

 

"Some people are just so _mean._.."

 

He was refering to Mycroft. But Mycroft wasn't being mean, was he? Greg scrunched his face in concentration as he replayed last night's conversation in his mind. He said Greg was different, a natural at Scrabble. He told Greg he was stubborn, not seeing this side of himself.There was nothing vile in his words, and he was just trying to get Greg see himself that way. So why should he be angry?

 

Greg ran the conversation again in his head. Ah, but he was being presumptuous. He thought he knew Greg. He thought Greg was smart and brilliant when he was just a lousy, useless sod who couldn't even take care of his family. He was...

 

Suddenly, it hit him.

 

He was not angry with Mycroft.

 

He was angry at himself.

 

He felt a pang of guilt when he realized what a dick he was acting like. When Mycroft was complimenting him, he yelled at Mycroft for no reason at all.

 

"...sir?"

 

He picked out his phone, wanting to phone Mycroft to tell him he was sorry for how he reacted, but realized he didn't have his number. But even if he had, the man probably won't forgive him. After all, he was the one who didn't show up at the Scrabble competition, and Mycroft was the one who travelled here to see what happened. They were both glad to see each other, and he had ruined the night by unreasonably throwing a tantrum, all because he was angry with his own life. It was reasonable for Mycroft to not forgive him. 

 

"...you alright?"

 

He slumped in his chair, rubbing his hands on his face as he wondered how far worse his life could be.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Johnlock has arrived.

Mycroft stared at the Scrabble board, thinking his next move.

 

But he couldn't.

 

All he could think of was Greg.

 

All he could think of was how he had messed up last night by forcing the conversation to go in the way he wanted. Greg obviously didn't want to talk about it: he had avoided his question and shown signs of annoyance. He was just too thick to see it.

 

He had no idea why Greg's departure had caused him so much inner turmoil. He was not his family, just a new acquaintance. He was obviously attracted to his good looks and brilliant mind, and that his primeval brain wanted a good shag with him, but he didn't know why he couldn't forget him.

 

The same feeling happened a year ago. After the match, all he could think of was Greg. Anthea had teased him for being so sentimental, which was something he only reserved for his little brother and Anthea. He had never felt this to someone else before. He had the urge to seek out this man, talk to him, get to know him more, but he also knew better than to act on his sentiment. It was illogical and stupid.

 

Caring was not an advantage.

 

He has already cared about two people. He didn't want a third disadvantage. But this time, the urge to talk to Greg and apologize was even greater than a year ago. He couldn't resist it.

 

So he just left the Scrabble opponent dumbfounded in his seat and left.

 

"Hello, dear brother mine," Mycroft spoke into the phone as he walked away from the competition room.

 

"What do you want, Mycroft?" Sherlock said , clearly annoyed, "You are interrupting a very important activity,"

 

"A little request, that's all. I need you to give me Gregory Lestrade's phone number," Mycroft said, "I will, of course  give you one more month's pay in return."

 

"You already asked for Greg's location yesterday. Did you fail to seduce him, Myroft?" Sherlock sneered. "Sentiment is really not your forte."

 

Mycroft was now practically immune to his brother's provocations after so many years of training. So he just ignored him and went on.

 

"As opposed to you, I have a lucrative business that I have to work on, not just running around with your John solving silly murders," Mycroft said.

 

"Murders are much more fascinating than Scrabble and chess anyway," Sherlock scoffed, "I will not help you since you just insulted my profession."

 

"Blackmailing one mid-ranking government official isn't really difficult, Sherlock. If you don't help me I might consider withholding your wages," Mycroft said dangerously. "You won't have the money to buy all the... equipment you need."

 

"Ah, John. Here you are," said a voice on the phone, "Goodbye, Mycroft. Now, if you don't mind, I am shagging my John on the sofa." A loud exasperated "Sherlock," erupted in the background, and then the call was ended.

 

Mycroft didn't worry at all. Although Sherlock would never verbally agree to help him, at the end he would always receive what he needed. The relationship between the two could be described as symbiotic: While Mycroft earned money from all the Scrabble and chess tournaments around the world, Sherlock would provide him information in exchange for money. The information was obtained by blackmailing, something Sherlock could do since he had applied his deductive abilities while shagging a lot of important men in the government. While he could use blackmail to earn money, it would only force the other side to take action, thus endangering his safety. Usually his blackmail only involved unimportant information, so he was like a vampire bat, sucking blood from a cow for his benefit without actually harming the cow.

 

Mycroft leaned back on his chair, figuring out what he should say in his text.

 

***

 

Greg threw aside the newspaper once he had finished the crossword puzzle in it. He rarely actually read the news: if it was about major accidents or homicdies, he would have known already; if it was about politics, he had no interest in it. Occassionally he would peek at the sports section, but he would rather just watch the football news on telly. He only bought newsapers for their crossword puzzles, which were, unfortunately, ridiculously easy. For a Scrabble nearly-champion, he couldn't figure out why people would need to spend more than five minutes on each puzzle. 

 

"You finished it already?" Collins asked incredulously, picking up the newspaper with disbelief. The crossword puzzle was indeed filled out with Greg's large and messy handwriting. "You just spent two minutes on it!"

 

"Not my personal best. My record was 1:33," Greg shrugged, watching the scenery outside the window. They were on the train back to Paris, and Collins had just given the newspaper to him after perusing it. Collins just watched Greg with disbelief.

 

The momentary silence was broken by a buzz from Greg's phone. Curious, since nearly no one texted him, Greg fished it out of his pocket quickly.

 

'Gregory: I sincerely apologize for what I have said during our last conversation. I should not have pursued the topic which you had already made clear you didn't want to talk about and I am very sorry for disappointing you. I dare hope to ask for your forgiveness, and that one day we might be able to talk again. - MH'

 

Greg read the text twice, making sure he didn't get the wrong message. No, he didn't get it wrong: Mycroft Holmes, which was surely the sender, was not angry at him; he was feeling guilty and was asking for forgiveness.

 

All sorts of emotions rushed up to him at once: Guilt, relief, happiness, confusion, hope. For a moment, he didn't know what to feel. He just sat there, eyes fixing on the small screen, brain too confused to make any response.

 

When he finally regained his senses, he typed up a lengthy and genuine response and hit the send button.

 

After that was done, he lied back on his chair and closed his eyes. Maybe his life wasn't so screwed after all.

 


End file.
